


Burdens of the Father

by ImpishTubist



Series: Winter's Child [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Relationship, Asexual!Sherlock, Kid Fic, Language, M/M, Mentions of past child abuse, Paternal!Lestrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-17
Updated: 2011-12-17
Packaged: 2017-10-27 11:16:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/295215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/pseuds/ImpishTubist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A random act of violence strikes too close to home for Sherlock and John, and a man from Sherlock’s past makes an unexpected - and unwelcome - reappearance. </p>
            </blockquote>





	Burdens of the Father

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing.
> 
> Beta: Canon_Is_Relative

A muffled _pop_ rent the air.

 _Gun_ , John was analyzing even as he grabbed a fistful of Sally Donovan’s shirt and hauled her behind the back of a police car, shoving her to the ground. _Silencer_.

The officers at the scene sprang into action around him, ducking for cover and reaching for radios, checking to make sure no one had been hit. They shouted orders to one another, brisk, and amid the chaos John gleaned that whoever had been firing on them had been almost immediately subdued. There had only been the one shot, and his mind was still in analytical overdrive.

 _One shot; intended target, not a random shooting. Likely he got who he was aiming for._

John got to his feet as soon as Donovan motioned that it was all right, and scanned the scene. He picked out Sherlock immediately, face twisted in fury as he knelt on the ground beside -

\- beside a very obviously wounded Lestrade.

“You stupid man,” Sherlock was hissing at him, hands flying as he unbuttoned Lestrade’s jacket and shirt, trying to get at the wound while blood pooled around his knees. “You stupid, _stupid_ man. What were you _thinking_?”

John shoved his way past the stunned officers and dropped to the ground beside Lestrade. He whipped off his jacket and stuffed it under the DI’s head while Sherlock spread his own over the man’s legs.

“Scarf,” John demanded, holding out his hand to Sherlock. His other had already found the wound and was applying pressure as best he could; Lestrade let out a strangled noise and tried to squirm away. “Sherlock, hold him still.”

He pressed the scarf to the jagged wound left behind by the sloppy shot and twisted his head around to bellow, “Is someone calling an ambulance?”

“Greg,” he said breathlessly once he’d been reassured by the fact that no less than three of his team already had their mobiles out, “can you hear me?”

Lestrade grunted, eyes fluttering. Sherlock slapped him lightly on the side of the face.

“No,” he ordered. “Stay awake. You don’t get to do this to me, Lestrade.”

“Not -” Lestrade managed to gasp, “ - much choice.”

“You’re an idiot,” Sherlock snarled at him. “A bloody _incompetent_ \- that bullet was meant for me!”

“Lucky thing - I was - there, yeah?” Lestrade hissed. “ _Christ_.”

“Hold still,” John tried to soothe, though he couldn’t keep the waver from his voice. “It’s going to be fine. Looks worse than it is, all right?”

Lestrade held his gaze for a moment, lips parted as though he wanted to say something. But then he simply nodded, and then bit back a whimper as John readjusted himself in order to press down harder on the wound.

“Sherlock,” John said, “take his hand. Greg, squeeze that when you need to, yeah? Every time it hurts.”

Lestrade nodded weakly and did as he was told. Seconds later, however, his grip went slack and his eyes rolled back into his head.

“Fuck,” John swore. “Greg!”

There was no response from his patient, but he was able to pick out a weak pulse.

“He’s only unconscious,” John said softly to Sherlock, who had gone startlingly pale the moment Lestrade passed out. He continued to tap cold fingers against the side of Lestrade’s face, trying to rouse him. “He’s going to be fine. Greg!”

\----

The first time Lestrade woke up, he was aware of blinding lights and insistent fingers that pried at his eyelids. He jerked his head away and sank back into darkness.

The second time Lestrade woke up, John was at his side. He wondered for a moment where Sherlock had got to, and worried that he might have been hit, but then John was telling him to go back to sleep and, though he didn’t want to, it happened anyway.

The third time Lestrade woke up, he became aware of the pain in his side before he noticed the people gathered around his bed, and wasn’t able to mask his wince in time.

John was up out of his chair in an instant, hovering over him.

“You with us?” he asked softly. “Greg?”

Lestrade parted his lips to reply and found that he couldn’t make any sound emerge.

“Sherlock, ice,” John commanded, and a moment later Lestrade felt thin shards of ice slip between his lips. He sucked them between his teeth, cracked them, let the cool liquid slide down his throat.

“Thanks,” he croaked finally.

“How do you feel?”

“Like I was shot,” he said dryly. John snorted. There was no sound from Sherlock. “Everyone all right?”

“You were the only casualty.”

“Good.”

“Good?” Sherlock sputtered. “In what way is that _good_?”

“Means no one got hurt...on my watch,” Lestrade said, pausing in the middle of the sentence to gather his thoughts. His chest felt tight, but the pain that had greeted him upon was beginning to fade. He suspected the culprit was heavy painkillers, administered earlier but only beginning to kick in now. Lestrade could feel the medicine dragging at his mind, and found that stringing a coherent sentence together - mentally or out loud - was a difficult endeavor.

He heard Sherlock draw breath to respond, but John jumped in. “Let him rest for a while, Sherlock. Then you can discuss the shooting.”

Sherlock snapped something back at John, but Lestrade was already drifting again and couldn’t make out the words.

\----

The next time Lestrade opened his eyes, the blur of medicine had mostly faded from his mind. He saw, through the window on the other side of his hospital room, the golden illumination that signaled high noon. And as it had been morning when he’d been shot, he surmised that a day or more had passed since last he was aware of the world around him.

 _Christ_.

Sherlock was sitting by his bed, still or again (either was possible with Sherlock), but John was nowhere to be seen.

“Been here long?” he rasped.

“A few hours,” Sherlock replied. “You’ve been asleep.”

“Mm. So I gathered. John?” Lestrade asked as he allowed his eyes to fall closed again. He could rest for a minute.

“Taking Calvin for a walk.”

“Christ,” Lestrade muttered. “Bit young for his first hospital visit already, isn’t he?”

“It’s not as though he will remember it,” Sherlock pointed out. “In any event, Mrs. Hudson was only available to watch him yesterday, so bringing him along was our only option.”

“Well, don’t keep him here all day,” Lestrade said, finally cracking open bleary eyes and fixing them on Sherlock. “Hospital’s no place for a baby, and he certainly doesn’t need to see me like this. _Yes_ , I know, he won’t remember. Humor me anyway.”

‘If you wish.”

“I do. Now, tell me - did they get the shooter?” Lestrade asked, finding that he could remember very little from yesterday morning. They had been at a crime scene when he’d turned around and happened to catch sight of a youth standing just beyond the police tape - eyes empty, reaching for something in his jacket. Lestrade shuddered to think what might have happened had he not happened to spot the teen, or what would have happened if he’d dismissed the strange look on the boy’s face and simply looked around again.

“Almost immediately,” Sherlock confirmed.

“Any idea why he was firing on us?”

“No,” Sherlock said with a slow shake of his head. “He hasn’t been particularly forthcoming.”

“But you were the target?” Lestrade asked. Sherlock’s frantic mutterings as he had fought Lestrade’s clothes to get at the wound still rang in his mind. He’d wondered up until now whether he imagined them, but Sherlock’s face tightened and he nodded.

“So it would seem.”

“Why?”

“I believe I addressed that already,” Sherlock snapped, and then immediately his features softened. He looked almost guilty, and there was a pause before the next question came.

“What were you thinking?”

“Hm?” Lestrade asked, for in the silence he had started to drift again. “What was that?”

Sherlock’s face was tight; strained. “What were you thinking?”

“In regards to what?”

“Getting _shot_.”

“Well, I might be wrong,” Lestrade sighed, shifting, “but I _think_ I was saving your life.”

“That’s not -”

“Sherlock, stop berating the man,” came the sound of John’s voice from the other end of the room. Lestrade couldn’t see around his partition, but he heard the door close behind the doctor and a slightly labored gait heading toward his bed. A moment later, John appeared around the curtain, Calvin balanced on his hip. “He’s been through enough already, don’t you think?”

“Hey, sport,” Lestrade said at the sight of his godson, giving him as broad a smile as he could manage. Calvin gurgled happily and held out his arms, trying to bodily throw himself from his father’s grip.

“Oh, for heaven’s - Calvin, you act like you haven’t seen him in _ages_ ,” John muttered, but he smiled nonetheless and set the nine-month-old in Lestrade’s lap. He pulled a couple of toys from a bag at Sherlock’s feet and handed them to the child, who proceeded to whack one of them - a stuffed giraffe - happily against Lestrade’s thigh.

“Calvin!” Sherlock said sharply, halfway out of his chair before John and Lestrade stopped him.

“It’s all right,” Lestrade assured him. “I was shot in the chest, Sherlock, not the leg. This is what babies do. Right, kiddo?”

Calvin gave an exuberant shout, and Lestrade chuckled. “See?”

“Don’t mind him. He’s been on edge ever since the shooting,” John said, and tugged Sherlock’s ear. The detective winced and glared.

“You were foolish.”

“Remember, Sherlock, that this is my job,” Lestrade countered. “It’s not yours, and I’ll not have civilians injured on my watch if I can help it. I’d do what I did again in a heartbeat, if I had to.”

“Let’s save this fight for later,” John said before Sherlock could respond. “You two will have plenty of time to go after one another once Greg is discharged.”

“John -”

“No, Sherlock,” John said firmly, holding up a hand. “Let’s just be thankful that no one died. You can argue about the specifics of it later.”

John sat heavily on the bed near Lestrade’s knees and watched his son entertain himself. Calvin leaned against his godfather’s stomach, absorbed entirely in his toy giraffe, which he was currently twisting and contorting, gleefully exploring all the different shapes he could make with it. Lestrade brushed a hand through the baby’s thin blond hair; Calvin twisted his neck to gaze up at him, and his face cracked into a huge grin.

“Hello, Cally,” Lestrade murmured. “How’ve you been?”

Calvin stuffed his giraffe’s neck in his mouth and giggled. Sherlock rolled his eyes and extracted the toy from Calvin’s grip, replacing it instead with a teething ring.

“God, he’s grown,” Lestrade said, brushing his thumb across the baby’s cheek. It was a well-worn observaton now, they had used it so frequently, and more often than not it stood in for their usual _hellos_. “Been - what - three weeks since I’ve seen him?”

“He got into the baby powder the other day,” John said fondly, smiling down at Calvin. “Came home to find Sherlock with tiny hand prints all over his shirt and face and trying to wrestle this one into the sink to try to clean him up. It just made things worse, especially when Cal discovered he could turn daddy’s hair white with just a touch of his hands.”

“Oh, I hope you got pictures of that.”

“He did,” Sherlock said, attempting to sound disdainful but betrayed by the small smile at the corner of his mouth. Calvin, timing impeccable, let out a manic giggle. Lestrade leaned down, ignoring the protesting twinge in his side, and kissed Calvin on the top of his head.

“Troublemaker,” he murmured, and Calvin gazed up at him gleefully. Lestrade poked his tiny nose; Calvin scrunched it up and tried to wriggle away.

“Are you in much pain?” John asked finally.

“Hm?” Lestrade raised drowsy eyes to his. “Oh, no, m’fine. The painkillers are working wonders. Careful!”

John’s quick reflexes saved the IV line that was attached to Lestrade’s arm, and once he ascertained that it was secure he lifted Calvin and held him firmly in his lap.

“Guess this one’s a bit more trouble than I thought; sorry, Greg,” he said as the child whined and squirmed, trying to break free.

“s’all right; he’s just a baby,” Lestrade said, holding out a hand. Calvin latched onto it immediately, and then started to fuss when he realized that Lestrade would not be taking him from his father.

“You’re quite the handful today, aren’t you?” John muttered, and leaned over to hand him to Sherlock. “There, go to your dad for a bit while I talk to Uncle Greg.”

“Oh, that doesn’t sound good,” Lestrade said, flashing a bright smile at Calvin while he struggled and fussed in Sherlock’s arms. The gesture seemed to reassure him, and his cries subsided into soft whimpers. It didn’t stop him, however, from shoving his thumb in his mouth and glaring at Lestrade accusingly through tear-filled eyes.

“It could be worse,” John admitted. “The shot wasn’t a clean one, and the bullet fragmented and ricocheted off your ribs. Long story short, it tore through some muscle and damaged some nerves, affecting the motor function of your left arm.”

“All right,” Lestrade said slowly. “Permanent?”

“No, not likely. With time to heal and physical therapy, you should regain most of your full range of motion.”

Lestrade nodded. “And my job?”

He saw Sherlock tense and turn his attention to Calvin.

“You’ll be able to return to work in time,” John told him. “Just don’t push your recovery, because there’s always a chance you might hurt yourself further, and then it _could_ be permanent.”

“You shouldn’t,” Sherlock broke in.

“I - sorry, what?”

“You shouldn’t return to work.” He lifted his eyes finally from Calvin and met Lestrade’s gaze.

Lestrade frowned. “You _do_ realize that’s absurd, right?”

“As ever, Lestrade, you are ignoring what’s right in front of you,” Sherlock sighed, his attempt at a grave look failing because Calvin currently had one of his fingers in a tight grip and was attempting to chew on it.

“Believe it or not, I don’t think I’m the one deluding myself, here. Sherlock, you can’t _honestly_ be asking me to leave my job. I’ve had far worse than this over the years.”

“You’ve been lucky,” Sherlock all but snarled. “You’re growing older, Lestrade. It will become harder for you to bounce back each time. An injury that would have been minor in your twenties could prove fatal in your sixties. And what then?”

Lestrade gaped at him a moment, and then turned to John. “I think we’re going to have that conversation you’ve been trying to avoid.”

“Yeah,” John said, already moving. He lifted Calvin from Sherlock’s lap and grabbed a toy from the bag. “I can see that. We’ll be outside; try not to kill one another.”

“What’s gotten into you?” Lestrade demanded once the door closed behind John. “You’ve never cared before about whether I get injured or not. And this isn’t the first time I’ve been in hospital.”

“You need me,” Sherlock said. Lestrade raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“To sit by my bed and brood?”

“I wasn’t _finished_ ,” Sherlock snapped irritably. “You need me - but I believe you have failed to take into account over the years that the reverse is true as well.”

“You need _me?”_ Lestrade asked incredulously. Sherlock ducked his head, looking down at his folded hands.

“Very much so,” he admitted after a pause. “I...have grown accustomed to your presence in my life. I am not ready for that to change.”

“Oh, you _idiot_ ,” Lestrade sighed. “Why d’you have to make everything so difficult? All you had to say was that you were worried.”

“I’m not worried,” Sherlock countered instantly. “I’m - Calvin should have a chance to know you.”

“And he will. So don’t try hiding behind him, Sherlock, that won’t work on me. Come now - what’s _really_ going on here?”

Sherlock leaned forward in the chair, resting his forearms on his thighs, his gaze unusually intense. Finally, he spoke.

“There are some things I can bear, Lestrade. I can bear your _idiotic_ team and your general incompetence and even your _miserable_ lack of observational powers.” Sherlock sucked in a breath. “But I cannot - I _will_ not - I won’t lose you, too.”

There was a moment of silence while Lestrade considered his words, and then he said, “You realize you’re being a hypocrite, yeah? D’you think I’m particularly fond of the fact that you apparently have a death wish?”

“That’s not the point here -”

“It _is_ ,” Lestrade insisted softly. “Remember when you came back from the dead, and the _hell_ you and John went through? And when you realized that the only way any of it was going to work is if you didn’t try to change - and if John didn’t ask that of you?”

Sherlock’s jaw tightened, and he gave a brisk nod.

“Right. Well. _I_ can’t change, either. And you can’t ask that of me, any more than John would ask it of you - or, hell, any more than _I_ would ask it of you.”

Sherlock’s hand tightened into a fist, and Lestrade watched as he forced himself to relax it.

“Your responsibilities are different now.”

“So are yours,” Lestrade pointed out. “Aren’t you always the one telling me not to focus on the things that _might_ have happened and the _could-have-beens_? That it’s pointless? Well, so’s this. I didn’t die today, and I’m not leaving the Yard. These are _facts_ , Sherlock.”

“Will you be more careful?”

“I’m always careful.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Says the man in the hospital bed.”

Lestrade held out a hand to him. Sherlock took it after a moment, and Lestrade tugged him until he was sitting on the bed, perched near his hips.

“You, John, and Cal are my priority,” he said softly. “That’s always in the back of my mind, no matter what I’m doing. I can promise you, I’m not eager to leave this Earth before I’m good and ready. And I’m not anywhere _near_ ready. So if something happens - it’s not because I’m taking purposeful risks or being careless. I wouldn’t do that to you. Understand?”

“I -” Sherlock stopped and shook his head, as though trying to physically force the worries he was unaccustomed to feeling from his mind. “I would rather minimize the risk of you...”

“Dying,” Lestrade supplied. “You _can_ say it.”

Sherlock gave a hesitant nod, and Lestrade squeezed his knee.

“I’m not going anywhere, sunshine,” he said softly. Sherlock’s lips thinned and he looked away. It was rare that Lestrade used that particular endearment on him; up until recently, it had been Jack’s and Jack’s alone. But Lestrade found it slipping out more and more around Sherlock, especially when the detective found himself in perilous situations or was doing something particularly foolish. “But I don’t regret what I did today, and you can’t expect me to.”

Sherlock gave a huff of disbelieving laughter. “You don’t regret the pain you might have caused should you have died?”

“I regret that there would be pain,” Lestrade allowed. “Of course I do. But I buried you once already. It’s not happening again.”

He reached out and grabbed Sherlock’s hand, clenching it in a tight grip that surprised them both. _“Nothing_ is happening to you while I’m alive. Do you understand? To any of you. That I _will_ promise.”

Sherlock swallowed hard, and still did not speak. Lestrade added, “I’m not dying today. Focus on that. I’m not leaving you.”

“See to it that you don’t,” Sherlock said finally. And then, softly, “Please.”

“Of course, sunshine.” A teasing smile. “Never could say _no_ to you, could I?”

  


* * *

Sherlock knew he should have realized what it meant when he returned to the Baker Street one afternoon and noted the mud on the mat outside the front door - _brown, not unusual, but the consistency is wrong for this area, and the dead leaf in the middle is from a plant only found in the north -_ and that the railing at the top of the steps had been wrenched out of place again - _someone grabbed onto it for balance; someone overweight, it’s the only way it could have been knocked out of alignment so badly._

But he was blinded by emotions when it came to this, even years after the fact. He hated this about himself, and had struggled in the time that had passed since his childhood to try to repress the feelings. They betrayed him still, and so when he swung open the door to the flat and came face-to-face with his father, he was less than prepared for it.

“Father,” he said curtly, forcing calm into his voice even as he realized dimly that he needed to _get out_ and _get away_. He needed a plan; he needed an excuse to leave.

 _think think think_

But his mind was slow and stuttering and kept wanting to focus on the fact that his father was _here_ and _now_ and good God, how had he found them? Sherlock had been so _careful_ , even with Mycroft’s meddling.

“I came to meet my grandson,” Siger Holmes told him in that smooth-as-silver voice. He had changed little since Sherlock had seen him last - added some width to his waistline and lost some hair, but otherwise the same. The same beady eyes were boring into Sherlock; the same thin mouth was twisted in disgust. The same pudgy hand was stuffed in his pocket; the other rested across his lips as he leaned his weight onto the mantel, resting his elbow there and attempting to appear casual.

It was an act. It was always an act.

“He’s not here,” Sherlock said shortly. “You can leave.”

“Actually, I thought, since I was here,” Siger said slowly, drawing out his vowels, “that we might have a chat.”

“I’m on my way out,” Sherlock said shortly, coming to a sloppy decision. “I only stopped back here for my mobile. It seems I forgot it in the kitchen.”

“Did you?” Siger said, mouth turning up in a sick grin.

It was a blatant lie, of course, and the older man saw right through it - after all, who had taught Sherlock in the first place about the power of _observation?_ But the detective didn’t care. He could easily outpace the man, even when walking, and knew every street in London. He could walk and think and _get away_.

But John would be returning from the shops soon, with Calvin, and now that Siger knew where he lived...well, Sherlock couldn’t avoid the flat forever, and he couldn’t leave his family where his father might get at them.

Sherlock didn’t get much further than that in his thought process, though, because the door downstairs slammed and there was a sudden heavy tread on the stairs. It was too quick to be John and Calvin, and came up the steps two at a time. Sherlock’s suspicions as to who it might be were confirmed when he heard a brisk, “Sherlock!” called ahead of Lestrade’s entrance into the flat.

“Sherlock, I got - oh.” Lestrade stopped, staring. “Sorry, I didn’t realize -”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock said briskly. “He was just leaving. What is it?”

“Hoping you could tell me. I got your text,” Lestrade said, waving his mobile. “You have some information on the Smith case?”

“I didn’t -” Sherlock stopped abruptly, realizing. _Mycroft_. “Actually, yes, I do.”

He turned back to Siger. “You need to leave. We have business to discuss.”

“I can wait.”

“No,” Sherlock ground out. “You _will_ leave this flat under your own power, or the Detective Inspector will escort you out. It’s your choice.”

Beside him, Lestrade shifted, drawing himself up to his full height. “Is there a problem here?”

“There won’t be, so long as he leaves,” Sherlock said, not taking his eyes off Siger. There was a heavy pause, and then Siger finally smiled and inclined his head toward the pair of them.

“Very well. We’ll talk another time.”

When he’d gone, Sherlock let out a breath and scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck.

“You haven’t any information, have you?” Lestrade said, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow. The DI was quick, this afternoon.

“No,” he said. “I assume my brother sent you a text, masking it so that it appeared to come from me. He has this flat bugged, I’m certain. He probably was aware my father was here even before I’d arrived.”

“Your... _father_?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said absently, and rubbed clammy hands together before smoothing the front of his shirt. He couldn’t recall, now, what he’d meant to do in the kitchen. How he _hated_ the way his father chased all useful and relevant thoughts from his mind, only to replace them with pointless memories.

“Sorry, I’ve just - never heard you mention him before.”

“There is a reason for that.” Sherlock gestured to his lower lip, at the scar he knew was still there; the scar that, even though it was little more than a faded line, still caught his eye every morning in the mirror. He watched as Lestrade’s face shifted from confusion to understanding, and then darkened to anger. A furrow appeared between his brows, but Lestrade was too tactful to inquire about the matter further.

“Does John know?” he asked instead.

“He knows enough,” Sherlock said.

“Which means _no_ ,” Lestrade sighed. “Christ, Sherlock, you shouldn’t keep stuff like this from him! From either of us, really.”

“Leave it,” Sherlock said shortly. “It’s finished.”

 _For now_.

“Right, well, d’you need...anything? I could put a couple of officers out on the street, keep an eye on this place for a few nights. Though I daresay your personal surveillance works pretty damn well.” Lestrade tried to smile; it wasn’t returned.

“I appreciate the thought, Lestrade, but you can hardly watch this place forever.” Sherlock shook his head. “No, we can manage. His discovering the flat is an unwelcome development, but I can’t say I hadn’t considered the possibility of it happening.”

“What will you do?”

Sherlock felt a mirthless smile tug at his lips. “Same thing I’ve always done: wait for him to die.”

He moved briskly into the kitchen without waiting for the expression on Lestrade’s face. He could imagine it well enough. Disappointment, most likely. He’d received that expression from Lestrade dozens of times over the years, and it stung more than he cared to admit.

“Your first week back at the Yard,” he observed, aware that Lestrade was probably here to stay for a while, given what he’d just witnessed, and that Sherlock was expected to make, as John put it, ‘small talk.’  

“Yeah,” Lestrade replied. He made for the kettle and started to make tea. Sherlock realized distantly that _he_ was the one supposed to be doing that, but found that he could focus little on anything else at the moment. Siger was occupying a large portion of his hard drive; much more than he had any right to.

“How’s the - um - arm?” Sherlock asked, aware that that should be next in his line of inquiry even though he couldn’t focus properly on getting the words out.

“Fine,” Lestrade said. “Still can’t lift it as high as I used to be able to, but I’ve recovered most of my original range of motion. Enough to do my job.”

 _...you ungrateful wretch, living off of my food and in my home -_

“...Donovan’s been asking after Cal.”

“Hmm?” Sherlock looked up. “Sorry?”

“I said that Donovan’s been asking how Cal is,” Lestrade repeated. He walked over to Sherlock and pressed a mug of tea into his hands. Sherlock blinked; he must have drifted. _Dammit_. “Not that you care about that right now. Where did you go, sunshine?”

“Nowhere,” Sherlock mumbled, taking a sip of the tea. Adequate; not quite like John’s, of course, but distinctly familiar. Comforting, in fact. It harked back to days and weeks spent on Lestrade’s sofa, drinking weak tea and struggling to keep down food as his body put him through the final pains of withdrawal. It took him back to the nights Lestrade would sit with him, long after his wife and child had gone to bed, and hold him upright while he retched because he lacked the strength to do it himself.

It took him back to afternoons spent stretched out on the carpet in Lestrade’s living room, teaching Jack simple mathematical equations while sunlight poured in from the wide windows and they both basked in it.

It was a sharp reminder that not all men resented their sons.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade said, breaking Sherlock from his thoughts. He was stirring his own tea, a deep frown cutting through his features. “Back before Calvin was born, you once told me you were worried that you might not love him because he wasn’t your own. Do you remember that?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. He didn’t delete anything from his hard drive that regarded Calvin, even if the memories were less than pleasant. Lestrade nodded.

“I always assumed that was simply a natural fear that all adoptive parents have. It probably still is. But in your case - you weren’t asking out of pure speculation, were you?” Lestrade’s eyes narrowed. “You have personal experience on the matter.”

“Well deduced, Inspector,” Sherlock said, though it lacked the bite he tried to infuse in it and he grimaced. “You’re in top form today. Be running the Yard next, all by yourself.”

“And Mycroft?” Lestrade pressed, refusing to be deterred by Sherlock’s words.

“Is my father’s natural son, yes.”

“I see. And your biological father?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Siger is the only man I’ve ever known as ‘Father.’”

Lestrade nodded. He wanted to ask more, Sherlock saw, but he wouldn’t. He was far too kind in that regard; he would let the answers come to him, if they were to come at all.

And Sherlock couldn’t explain it, but there was a very great need building in his gut - a need to _simply say_. A need to tell Lestrade the things he couldn’t tell John; the things he couldn’t bear for Calvin to know, as though voicing his fears - and his secrets - out loud would make them come true.

“He taught me the things I know,” Sherlock said. “Taught me how to use my mind, at least. I was born a genius; he helped me focus it. And the first thing he had me do was... _deduce_ my mother’s infidelity.”

He saw Lestrade swallow, but the other man’s eyes were otherwise unreadable.

“He told me that it was necessary that I know about my true origins. I couldn’t make use of my skills if I was already deluded about where I came from and who I was. How could I be expected to read others in just a glance, if I couldn’t even read myself?”

“And what did he say you were?” Lestrade asked tightly. His hand had tightened around his mug; his fingers were turning white.

“You know already. You hear it often enough at crime scenes.”

Lestrade went white at the realization. _“Christ.”_

Sherlock waved it off. “It’s no matter. They can’t have known. And they’re a bit correct, wouldn’t you say?”

“No. I most certainly would not.” Lestrade put his mug down on the counter behind him and folded his arms tightly across his chest. “Are you going to tell John?”

“Not presently. Perhaps not ever.” Sherlock felt his own fingers twitch against his mug. “I would...appreciate if you would do the same. Don’t tell him.”

“I won’t,” Lestrade said earnestly, and Sherlock knew he was telling the truth. “Just - why tell me, Sherlock? What can I do?”

“The same as you’ve always done.”

“And what’s that, then?”

Sherlock stared at the dregs at the bottom of his mug.

“Don’t leave us.”

\----

True to his word, Lestrade said nothing when John returned a quarter of an hour later, and made as quiet an exit as he could. He answered John’s questioning gaze with, “Sherlock had some information for me about the Smith case,” and left for the Yard again after throwing one last concerned look in Sherlock’s direction.

Sherlock winced - how he _hated_ that look - and turned his gaze again to his empty mug until Lestrade had gone.

“I thought you had hit a dead end with that case,” John commented, attempting to shrug out of his coat with Calvin still in his arms. Sherlock cross the room and relieved John of the baby.

“Had a breakthrough,” he murmured. Calvin gurgled happily and, smiling, rubbed his face against his father’s chest, grabbing a fistful of Sherlock’s shirt with one hand and shoving his other thumb into his mouth. “Hello, Calvin.”

Sherlock began to twist gently, moving at his hips, rocking the baby. Calvin heaved a tremendous sigh as Sherlock fell into the familiar rhythm, and his blue eyes fluttered.

“I love him,” Sherlock said suddenly. He heard John pause behind him, and then resume putting away the food that he had picked up at the shops.

“Of course you do.” John sounded amused and slightly perplexed. “And he knows it.”

“Do you believe so?”

“Yes,” John said. “Yes, of course he does. Has you wrapped around his finger and knows _that_ , too.”

Sherlock brushed his thumb along Calvin’s cheek. Calvin twisted his head to look up at his father, and gave a smile around his thumb. He babbled for a moment, drool leaking out the corner of his mouth, and Sherlock felt the fist clenched around his heart slowly ease.

“Of course I will,” he said to the baby, wiping away the drool with the palm of his hand. “I’ll always love you, Cally Jack.”

He added, “Even if you turn out perfectly ordinary,” as an afterthought, and John snorted. Calvin appeared to be satisfied with this answer, though, because he promptly buried his face in Sherlock’s shirt and squealed in delight.

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock's father's name comes from William Baring-Gould, who theorized that his father would have been named Siger and his mother, Violet. These names are not part of ACD canon.


End file.
